Celebrants
by Kelly Heyen
We filed out of the cab at 7 p.m. sharp, cradling lukewarm bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, store-bought eclairs transferred to porcelain platters, cold cuts smothered in cling film. We exclaimed over the house, a creamy stuccoed ranch Alyssa never would have been able to afford on her own, whispering to each other that the New Boyfriend must be from money. A silver collar gleamed beneath Alyssa’s blouse. It was the newest fashion in the suburbs: no clasp, no seams, soldered together only once it had been fitted around a woman’s neck. A ruby glistened wetly in the hollow of her throat. We exclaimed over that, too.
We congregated on the sun-baked patio, nibbling sweaty wedges of cheese and eviscerated olives. We asked the New Boyfriend about his job (finance), his hobbies (finance), what brought him to the area (a previous romance that had–mercifully!–soured). The concrete pad belched waves of heat even after dark, and we wilted in plastic lawn chairs, limbs heavy. Corpses awaiting our turn in the cremator. A turquoise pool shimmered in the light of tiki torches. We were meant to be voyeurs, not participants. To christen Alyssa’s new life with compliments, unrestrained as confetti, celebratory as curls of ribbon on a gift. We played our part obediently, watching the New Boyfriend with clinical interest. He moved like a ghost, evaporating when conversation grew stale, reappearing at Alyssa’s side when we asked, So this is it then? Tell us, really. Are you happy? She smiled, head bobbing above the silver collar like a woman bewitched, a creature leashed.
We pocketed our observations for later, saving them to dissect on the drive home. Alyssa feeding the New Boyfriend a swollen cherry. Upending the punch bowl. Sloshing pulpy dregs into her cup. The New Boyfriend whisking the glass away. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?
We noted his knuckle blotting sweat from Alyssa’s temple. His thumb sliding beneath the collar, tugging until a bruise blossomed across her neck.
Even so, we murmured behind our own manicured fingernails, see how happy she is? How he looks at her? Like royalty. Like dessert.
The New Boyfriend ordered a car at 11 p.m. sharp. We piled in, forgetting cellphones and serving bowls that would later be mailed to our cramped studio apartments. He was suddenly attractive, our unease ironed out by the drinks, the hour, the fading light, until we couldn’t help but imagine the scrape of his fingers on our faces, of metal around our throats.
They stood on the stoop to wave us off, the New Boyfriend’s palm planted firmly on Alyssa’s collar, tethering her to the quiet cul-de-sac. The ruby like a drop of calcified blood. When she smiled her eyes were wet. Wine, we decided. Joy, we decided. Hadn’t she always wanted a house in the suburbs? Didn’t we all?
Kelly Heyen lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is a member of The Porch writers’ collective.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 23.
Photo by Joshua Fuller on Unsplash